


Crash

by poisontaster



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Character of Color, F/M, Female Character of Color, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Male Character of Color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix and Dee crash a wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash

They shouldn’t be here. He says as much, not that it’ll do any good.

“Oh, come _on_ , Felix; live a little.”

And he just can’t help it when Dee gives him that look, half-exasperated, half-fond. Besides, they _are_ done with the repairs to the comm. systems on the Rising Star ahead of schedule, and the Raptor won’t be back to pick them up for another ninety minutes. Sitting in the departures wing checking and rechecking figures isn’t half as interesting.

“I can’t believe we’re going to crash a wedding,” he says and shakes his head. “What are we, twelve?”

Dee just rolls her eyes and grabs his hand, leading him out of the shelter of the colonnade and into the artful and artificial grove of garden.

“And that’s ‘live a little, _sir_ ,” he adds, just to see her roll her eyes again.

He’s a little surprised at the sudden proliferation of weddings. Not on Galactica, of course, but among the civilians in the Fleet. Pregnancies too. It seems like President Roslin’s unofficial edict of ‘go forth and multiply’ is not falling on deaf ears.

Felix was thinking more in terms of the snack table, but Dee drags him out onto the impromptu dance floor, shedding his laptop case and the hard case of tools off his arm along the way. “Hey!” he yelps.

“They’ll be _fine_ ,” she chides him and pulls him into her arms.

This too is a little surprising. He’s still fumblingly uncertain about the events of the last few months—since the Colonies fell, since the Galactica, the Pegasus and this ragtag fleet is all that’s left of a whole civilization—his head injury in the Pegasus attack saw to that. But of all the gaps in his knowledge and the holes in his memory, this is the one he wants most to fill. He and Dee have always been friendly—with as much time as they spend together in the CIC swapping tasks, it could hardly be otherwise—but somewhere in the time he can’t recall, that relationship seems to have gone from friendly to friends.

 _And maybe more,_ he thinks, not _quite_ hopefully, as she sways against him, smiling up into his eyes. _If I’m not completely crazy. If this is real_.

The wedding guests _have_ to know that they don’t belong—they’re both still in uniform, for gods’ sake—but so far, the only reaction to their presences has been indulgent looks, a nudge to his arm by the groom, and a _really_ inappropriate wink from a woman old enough to be his grandmother. For what feels like the first time in weeks, Felix just lets himself relax and fall into the music and the girl—woman—in his arms.

The song comes to an end. Another, faster one comes up from the loop, but they don’t stop the languid side-to-side slide they got going on. “Dee?” he murmurs, craning a little to look at her head nestled against his collarbone.

“Hmm?”

“Is this…? Did something happen with us…uh, before?” They still haven’t worked out the euphemisms for discussing his period of lost time.

He can’t mistake the way she stiffens, not when they’re so close, nor can he mistake the careful note to her voice when she says, “Why do you ask?”

Two plus years of duty together; he can almost hear the silent _frak, frak, frak_ \--or whatever her non-swearing equivalent is—through her skin. That decides him. It’s his turn to grab her by the wrist and tug her away. “Come on.”

“Wait…” Her feet drag in protest, but only for a second. “Felix…where are we going?”

He doesn’t know the Rising Star the way he knows Galactica; he tugs her into the second nearest bathroom—the nearest will be choked with wedding guests—and takes a moment to fiddle with the lock codes so the door will seal for ‘cleaning’.

Dee stands in the middle of the floor, arms crossed and her expression somewhere between amused and annoyed. “I was having a really good time, _sir_ ,” she says frostily. “And, if you…”

Felix closes the two steps between them, puts a hand to either side of her jaw and kisses her.

It’s like nothing he’s ever done before. It’s like everything he’s wanted to do for a month now, after waking up from that cloud of _don’t remember_ with Dee smiling down at him through tears. Or maybe…not quite _everything_ …

He expects her to slap him. Well, not really, but he expects something other than the shiver that runs through her toes to crown and the way her hands come up to grab a double fistful of his jacket and pull him down and into her. It’s so…emphatic.

“Dee,” he murmurs through her mouth as she tugs harder, pulling him one halting step forward.

“No.” Her eyes stay closed, her forehead presses to his as she pants, shallow heated breaths that go straight to his groin. “Shut up. Shut up, because if you start talking, you’re going to just screw it up, and I can’t… _Frak._ ” her voice shakes, splintering over the unaccustomed curse. “Just shut up, okay?”

“O..” he starts, but she puts a finger over his lips and drags him towards the sink, her mouth finding his again. She tastes like the weird fruity lip balm she wears and cinnamon and her teeth nip hard at his bottom lip as if she’ll use any means at her disposal to keep him close. Felix thumbs the buttons of her jacket, but only gets as far as the second before she shakes her head and looks up into his eyes.

“No time,” she mutters impatiently, making short work of his belt, zipper and trouser button. She hooks her fingers in his waistband and shorts, making his stomach quiver, and pulls the whole business down to puddle around his ankles.

He can’t help it. “Dee!”

“No time,” she says again, and then she’s breaking all land speed records for shimmying out of her boots and uniform trous and impossibly tiny and girlish underwear like a scrap of sand colored lace. He tries to help, but she only slaps his fingers away. “I’m faster,” she hisses, then lunges at him again, a tangle of tongue and lips and teeth whose ferocity drives him back until the sinks’ counter is under him and she’s on top, all knees and slim muscled thighs.

His hands cradle her hips, steadying, as she sinks onto him. He arches up and she grinds down, a shared undulation like the sea. “Oh _gods_ ,” Dee whispers, and he couldn’t agree more.


End file.
